


Eventualities

by izayoi_no_mikoto



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Pain Sharing, Rated For Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-09-28 10:11:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20424254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izayoi_no_mikoto/pseuds/izayoi_no_mikoto
Summary: Roy has suffered far too much pain in his life.Only half of it has been his.





	Eventualities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [minium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minium/gifts).

> Contains spoilers for essentially the entire series.

**禁忌｜taboo**

When he wasn't kept up by after-hours travel, late-night military operations, or extra paperwork, Roy Mustang preferred to go to bed early.

Just like his ambition for the Führership, his small circle of trust, and his deep-seated self-loathing, it was something he attributed to his experiences in the Ishval genocide. More than once, he'd been dragged roughly out of his sleep with orders to roast more innocents; more than once, he'd stared up into the midnight sky, the stars and the moon veiled by smoke and ash, and prayed futilely to no god for the oblivion of unconsciousness. He'd learned to value every last shred of sleep he could snatch, and that stuck with him even after he'd left the battlefield behind. He was stationed in East City now, the paved streets a far cry from the gruesome war zones of his early years in the military, but there was still no telling when he'd next be called upon to stay up for two days straight. It was best to sleep when and where he could and not take it for granted.

So, inasmuch as was possible, he returned home at a reasonable hour, stripped off his military blues, took a hot shower, dressed in comfortable sleepwear. Sometimes he read a chapter from a newly published alchemy treatise; sometimes he treated himself to a finger of whiskey. Either way, he preferred to end up in bed by ten o'clock at the latest. He'd done the same tonight, minus the whiskey. At nine forty-nine pm, he'd flipped the light switch, padded back to his bed, and slipped beneath the blankets. His checks were automatic, so ingrained that they happened without conscious thought: windows locked, pistol in his nightstand drawer, one glove on top of the nightstand, the other tucked beneath his pillow. He fell asleep almost immediately, another habit picked up on the battlefield that he'd never quite managed to shake.

He dreamed.

That, too, was normal.

* * *

Roy Mustang dreamed of too many things that, in the light of day, he pretended he'd forgotten.

The stench of scorched flesh.

The gusts of heat.

The unidentifiable corpses.

The look in Hughes' eyes, in Riza's. In those of his own reflection.

And the screams. Always, always the screams.

* * *

This night, Roy Mustang woke up screaming.

This was not normal.

For several long seconds, he thought it was the remnants of his dream--memory conflated with imagination, trauma formulating an auditory hallucination that his sleep-addled mind struggled to identify as false. But when he opened his eyes, his vision was misted-over gray with patches of black and speckles of crimson, and his throat ached, and--

\--and it was not a dream, or a hallucination, or anything false or imagined. It was him. He was screaming.

He was screaming, because his left leg was in _agony_.

It felt like nothing he'd ever experienced before. It felt like his leg was being taken apart, flesh peeled away, muscle stripped from bone, ligaments torn, tendons shredded--deconstructed into its constituent parts, into bits and pieces, into individual atoms. It was pain beyond description, agony beyond anything he'd ever imagined. It made him want to vomit. It made him want to pass out. It made him want to cry. But surely this was Hell, surely this was punishment for his sins, because he was in such unspeakable torment that he could do nothing but clutch at his leg and scream and scream and _scream_\--

And then it struck his right arm as well, as though the molecules of his very being were splitting, and Roy realized, in a bare moment of horrified clarity, that he was dying.

* * *

Roy Mustang did not die that night. But he would remember that night until the day he finally did die.

* * *

Hughes talked about his beloved Gracia at the slightest opportunity, and if such an opportunity did not present itself he forced one into existence. Roy tuned out such prattle to the best of his abilities, but Hughes was nothing if not stubborn and also hopelessly in love, which was a deadly combination. So Roy had heard more than he really wanted to about Hughes' dear, darling, wonderful, beautiful, brilliant, loving Gracia, as though that were encouragement for Roy to find someone for himself.

"I didn't even realize I'd fallen for her," Hughes had said once, or perhaps a hundred times, with a wistful, besotted sigh. "I knew I loved her, of course, but I didn't realize that I _loved_ her. By the time I realized, it was already too late."

An unfathomable amount of time later, Roy stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, drenched in sweat, panting for air, the agony finally succumbing to numbness, and he at last realized what had happened. But by then, it was already too late.

* * *

He went to work the next morning, because of course he did. But a glance at his reflection in the mirror let him know that his wan face and baggy eyes and pinched expression all betrayed him, and indeed, the moment he walked into his office, Riza saluted him, then did a double-take. Her eyes widened in alarm. "_Sir--_"

"Just another sleepless night, Lieutenant," Roy said, cutting her off with a lackadaisical wave of his hand. He dropped down into his seat and leaned back, folding his arms behind his head and leering. "And a rather enjoyable one at that."

Someone coughed. Riza stared at him with narrowed eyes, just a heartbeat too long, and then she let out an exasperated sigh. Just another underling having to deal with her commanding officer's lascivious, skirt-chasing ways. "Next time, please keep in mind the day of the week, sir."

He managed to avoid the issue for most of the day, but he should have known he could not outsmart Riza. She sprang her trap at the end of the workday, just when Roy had started thinking he might be home free. "You have far too much paperwork left, sir," she said, her voice perfectly professional, a draconian gleam in her eye. "You'll be staying late tonight." And as if to prove her point, she dumped a stack of papers on his desk, then stood at attention right there, just staring at him.

He never was sure if she saved up paperwork for moments like this or if she just manufactured it out of thin air.

With a put-upon sigh, Roy dragged the first sheet off the top of the stack and stared at it. "The rest of you can go," he said, a clear dismissal, and he signed the paper. Still, it took about an hour's worth of requisitions forms, requests for leave, mission reports, and discharge certificates for everyone else to clear out, leaving him and Riza alone. Still, she knew better than to speak her mind within the walls of East Area Headquarters, where the walls had ears and anyone might overhear; instead, she waited until they were out on the streets, where the sky was dark and starless and the street lights too dim, before she said in a low, tense voice, "Sir?"

"It's nothing you need to concern yourself with, Lieutenant," Roy replied.

"But sir--"

"I said it's nothing."

She stopped in her tracks. Roy kept on for another few steps, but then he, too, stopped. He stared down the street, wishing he could just walk away.

He turned around.

Riza's expression was set, her brow knitted, her eyes piercing and determined. "Sir," she said. "You entrusted me to keep you on your path. You asked me to be your sense of judgment." She did not falter or equivocate. "That is what I am trying to do, sir."

Roy exhaled, slowly. "It doesn't matter," he repeated, but this time he looked her in the eye as he said it. "I felt what I felt, but it doesn't matter. They're probably dead anyway."

"They?" Riza asked, frowning. Then her eyes went wide, understanding blooming over her face. "_Sir_\--"

"Or maybe not," Roy said. "Plenty of people survive double amputations. But either way, it doesn't matter."

It had been a while since he'd seen that expression of horror on Riza's face. She didn't recoil or retreat--the military had long since beaten it out of her--but she blanched nevertheless. "Sir--"

"Nothing changes, Lieutenant," Roy said harshly. "The mission doesn't change. Nothing changes."

She swallowed, then closed her eyes, just for a second. When she opened them again, she had gathered herself together, her chin lifted, her expression steady. "Yes, sir."

Roy turned back around to head home. "Oh, and Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir?"

"This gets out to nobody."

She didn't even hesitate. "Of course, sir."

* * *

It was not much later that Roy received a tip about potential State Alchemist candidates. _Two alchemists, brothers, highly talented_, the tip said. _Resembool_. Being the highest-ranked State Alchemist in the East, Roy went to investigate. A train to Resembool, a rural town that had never recovered from the toll exacted by the Ishval Civil War. A leisurely walk to the house where it was said the alchemist brothers lived.

And there, the most horrifying thing Roy had seen since he'd become the Hero of Ishval.

"Sir?" Riza asked, an edge of panic to her voice. "What--"

Roy had no answer, or at least not one he could give voice to. She didn't understand; for all the things she'd seen from her father, for all the ink burnt into and off of her skin, she wasn't an alchemist, and that meant she didn't understand, _couldn't_ understand. Even Roy could only understand fragments of the array, but even those fragments were enough, too much--even half, even a quarter, even a tiny fraction--

"Where are they," he gritted out, tearing his eyes away from the monstrosity of blood and sin scrawled across the floor. "_Where are they?!_"

They were, he soon found, at a neighbor's house. There was an old lady, tiny, wrinkled, holding a long tobacco pipe in trembling fingers, her eyes too devastated to be dead. There was a girl, shaking, her shoulders slumped, her eyes veined red and brimming with tears. There was an empty suit of armor, its head bowed, its eye-holes shining with an unnatural light.

There was a boy.

He was a weak, pitiful boy, sitting limp, practically catatonic. Missing two limbs. Right arm, left leg, gone.

Roy stared at him, and stared, and stared.

It wasn't definitive proof, wasn't proof of anything at all. But he didn't need proof. He knew, and it was too late.

* * *

But the boy had fire in his eyes.

**決意｜resolve**

He'd planned to never tell anyone, but the universe--or fate, or God, or sheer dumb luck--had it out for him.

Ten thirty-seven am. Riza was reaming out Havoc, who had returned seven minutes late from his smoke break. "But Lieutenant!" Havoc protested.

"But nothing," Riza snapped, one eyebrow twitching. "If you're going to step away for smoke breaks, you will return _promptly_."

"But there was a girl!" Havoc said. "She was beautiful! Drop-dead _gorgeous_! I've never seen such a gorgeous lady!" His hands spasmed at chest height, betraying exactly what he meant when he said _gorgeous_. "You know what it's like when you see a girl like that!"

Riza's unimpressed expression didn't shift by so much as a hair.

Havoc faltered, then turned to Roy in desperation. "Chief!" he pleaded. "Back me up here! Sometimes you just have to drop everything for a woman!"

And this was Roy's cue to chime in with some kind of slimy, sleazeball agreement, or perhaps an equally slimy, sleazeball scoffing that _some_ of them didn't have to go panting after women on the street. So he opened his mouth to speak--

But instead, he choked on nothing, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Agony, like fire, like electricity. Like a million-volt wire had been jammed into his arm and his leg, frying his nerves, whiting his vision, blanking all sound to a vague, high-pitched buzz. Faintly, as though from a distance, he could feel his muscles spasming, hear his throat working, but it was far, far away, made dim and remote by the horrific agony flooding his left leg and his right arm.

And then, like a dream, it faded.

Roy blinked away the spots in his vision, panting. The world was sideways, he realized, his thoughts hazy. And then, a moment later, he realized that the world was still rightside up. He was the one tipped sideways.

"Colonel!"

"Master Sergeant Fuery, call for a doctor!"

"Colonel! Can you hear me? Colonel!"

Roy coughed, took a deep breath. He was lying on the floor, his cheek pressed against the hardwood. Had he fallen out of his chair? He had no memory of it. Tentatively, he pushed himself up onto one elbow.

"Colonel," and that was Riza, breathless, her eyes wide, crouched down in front of him, her hands hovering as though she was afraid to touch him and afraid not to. "What--"

"I'm fine," Roy croaked out. He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, took another deep breath. "I'm fine," he repeated, and forced himself upright.

"Master Sergeant," Riza said, "the doctor--"

"No doctor," Roy interrupted. "I'm fine."

"Sir, you are _not_ fine--"

"I'm fine!" Roy snapped. "There's nothing wrong with me!"

"Sorry for the insubordination, but I think everyone here disagrees with you on that," Havoc said. "Sir--"

"I'm fine," Roy repeated, _again_. "Fuery, no doctor."

Fuery looked up, holding the phone receiver halfway to his ear. "Colonel Mustang," he said, a bit helplessly.

"_No doctor_," Roy pressed, and hauled himself up off the floor. He leaned against the desk, gripping his right shoulder. "I'm fine."

Riza leapt to her feet. "With all due respect, sir--"

"I believe it was not him," Falman said quietly.

Roy closed his eyes.

"What?" Havoc said, a few steps behind in more ways than one.

Riza whirled on Roy. "I thought you said they were _dead_," she hissed.

"I said he _might_ be dead," Roy said through gritted teeth. "I also said he might _not_ be. Clearly he isn't."

Riza stared at him, her lips pursed, her eyes narrowed. Belatedly, he realized his mistake: _He_ might be dead. _He_ isn't. The only way Roy could say that was if he knew it was indeed a _he_. If they'd met. If he'd identified the person whose pain he felt.

But there was no surprise in her expression, no confusion or recrimination or even a shadow of a shred of doubt, and he realized that she knew. She _knew_.

Then again, she had been the one to accompany him to visit the Elrics, half a year ago.

Roy pressed one hand to his temple, tried to think. At last he straightened, gathering the tattered edges of his dignity around him. "Fuery," he said. "I don't need a doctor."

With wide eyes, without another word, Fuery hung up the phone.

"Wait," Havoc said, his eyes wide. "You mean--"

"Shut up," Breda muttered.

Roy worked his shoulder, but the pain was much weaker and still fading. His leg, too, felt much closer to normal. What was Edward Elric getting up to? What could cause such extreme pain to the remnants of limbs already lost? He couldn't think clearly; he was still too frazzled. "It's fine," he said. "It changes nothing."

Riza was still watching him with a pained gaze, but she pulled herself together. "It changes nothing," she echoed. Then she shot severe glares at her companions. "And this doesn't get out to anyone else," she said, a warning and a threat all at once. "To _anyone_."

The men all around her nodded, cowed into obedience. Roy surveyed the group, just a quick sweep. They were good people; they could be trusted. They wouldn't betray the fact that Roy Mustang, the State Alchemist quickly rising through the ranks with his eye on the prize of the Führership, had one of the greatest weaknesses known to mankind.

He collapsed back into his desk chair, his hand still holding his shoulder. _Edward Elric_, he thought, _what is happening to you?_

* * *

He found out half a year later, when Edward Elric arrived at East City on his way to Central for the State Alchemist Certification Exam. Roy had received word from Pinako Rockbell, the Elric brothers' de facto guardian; he had Edward's ETA. He showed up at the station ten minutes early, unsure of what to expect.

The train pulled into the station, and Edward Elric stepped onto the platform. He _stepped_, on two feet, even and steady and without hesitation, and he held a bag in his right hand, his _right_ hand, which gleamed silver in the light--

Now that Roy thought about it, he'd heard that getting automail was an excruciating experience.

Roy shook his head and gathered his wits. He strode up, weaving through the people. "Edward Elric," he said.

Edward turned at the sound of his name. "Hey," he said, and then he proceeded to eye Roy speculatively, with the casual, devil-may-care attitude of a twelve-year-old who had never learned to respect his elders.

Twelve years old. He was _twelve years old_. Barely a year ago he'd attempted human transmutation and lost two limbs, and now he stood there in automail, his golden hair grown long enough to be tied back in a short braid, his eyes alive.

"Colonel Mustang," Edward said, which was a bit of a surprise; Roy wasn't sure Edward would remember him. "Granny didn't tell me _you'd_ be meeting me. I thought you were supposed to be too much of a hot-shot for that." He shot Roy a cocky grin. Brash and confident and prepared to join the military, and he was _twelve_.

_I can protect him_, Roy thought. _I'm going to the top so I can protect everyone beneath me. Him, too. This is the best way I have to protect him._

Roy extended a hand. "Edward Elric," he repeated. "Welcome to East City."

Edward smirked, and he grabbed Roy's hand. Automail. Cool to the touch, the metal perfectly smooth. Moving as easily as flesh and blood. The source of so much agony.

_I'll protect you,_ Roy thought, _and you will never know._

**痛感｜realization**

Edward Elric became the Fullmetal Alchemist, and he was assigned to Roy's command.

"You're the one who found him," Führer Bradley said, his one eye gleaming. He spoke in that voice, the one Roy hated because he was never sure if it veiled criticism or masked amusement. "I'm sure you'll do a fine job of whipping him into shape." The Führer paused then, almost speculatively. "And perhaps train him not to threaten to attack the Führer."

Roy allowed himself a small wince. "I will endeavor to do my best, Your Excellency," he replied.

"Take care on your trip back to East City," the Führer said.

Roy snapped off a sharp salute, his back ramrod-straight, his heels clicking together. "Sir!" And as he watched the Führer walk away, all he could think was, _Thank goodness. Thank goodness._

* * *

Roy didn't believe in God--most alchemists didn't--but if there was a God, Roy probably owed Him a few prayers of gratitude. Yes, he'd been the one to locate and identify Edward Elric, had been the one to nominate him for the State Alchemist Certification Exam, but that didn't guarantee anything. If there was one thing that Roy Mustang knew, it was that there were no guarantees. The newly christened Fullmetal Alchemist could have been sent anywhere in Amestris.

Instead, he'd been sent to Roy, as though the universe _knew_.

_Thank goodness._

* * *

Being Edward's commanding officer, Roy had almost complete control over his military assignments, and he decided them with great care. It was a delicate balancing act. The Fullmetal Alchemist could be a great ally in the long run, a valuable asset in Roy's ascendancy. But if Roy didn't play his cards right, the Fullmetal Alchemist could also become a dangerous opponent, an obstacle that could be neither destroyed nor overcome. Even worse, he could become a _weakness_.

So he took care with Fullmetal's assignments. Make him useful, but not _too_ useful; get him experience by giving him dangerous missions, but not _too_ dangerous. Keep his brain engaged, but don't let him see _too_ deeply.

Keep him close, but not _too_ close.

Roy started small. There was a manhunt in East City, an escaped prisoner, not even an alchemist. Roy added Edward to the team. "Fullmetal, you're to be on call in case they need backup," he said, steepling his fingers and giving Edward his best serious expression. "But you're not to go in unless they specifically request your assistance."

Edward snorted and waved a dismissive hand, which Roy took to mean that he understood. Roy learned the error of his ways five hours later, in a meeting with _Grumman_ of all people, when a sudden, searing slash of pain carved through his right thigh. Roy jerked in his seat, biting back a yelp that was only half surprise. "Mustang?" Grumman asked, peering over his glasses. "Is something the matter?"

Roy gritted his teeth in a grin. "Nothing at all, sir," he said, forcing his voice to something pleasant and meaningless. Just because he viewed Grumman as something of an ally didn't mean he was going to _tell_ the man anything. "I just realized I'd forgotten about something."

Grumman's eyebrows rose. "Anything urgent?"

_Yes, it's urgent. He's hurt. He's _**_hurt_**_. _"Not urgent enough to interrupt our game," Roy replied, and advanced a pawn.

He successfully got himself checkmated in eight minutes, all without seeming like he was trying to throw the game. "Your victory again, sir," Roy said with an exaggerated sigh. "I'll beat you one of these days."

"You can certainly try," Grumman replied, his eyes twinkling.

And at last, at _last_, Roy escaped. He hightailed it back to his own office, strode through the halls at a fast clip, slammed the door open with so much force that every single one of his subordinates jumped upright and stared at him with wide, wide eyes. "Sir?" Riza asked.

"I need a report on the manhunt," Roy barked. "Fullmetal's hurt."

Most of them wore identical expressions of confusion, varying only in degree. Riza was the only one with a flicker of alarm in her eyes. "Sir," she said, her shoulders stiff, her voice full of warning.

"Sir? Where did you hear that?" Breda asked with a frown. "We haven't had any reports--"

"I know we haven't had any reports," Roy snapped. "That's why I want one, _now_."

"Wait, if we haven't gotten any reports, how'd you know he got hurt?" Havoc asked.

"_Sir_," Riza said, even more sharply than before.

He'd planned to tell no one else, but circumstances changed. The calculation was swift, brutal; its result, inevitable. "How _else_ do you think I know he's hurt?" Roy snarled.

Silence; confused, at first, but then stunned, speechless. "Sir," Falman said at last, "do you mean that Major Elric is--"

"_Report_!" Roy snarled.

Curses all around. Fuery scrambled for the phone. Havoc scrambled out the door. "What sort of injury, sir?" Breda asked.

Roy squeezed his eyes shut. "Knife," he said slowly. "I believe." It was nothing like the torture of losing two limbs to human transmutation, that was for sure, and equally unlike the agony of having automail connected to live nerves. A clean, slicing pain. "Knife," he repeated, opening his eyes. "Or a sword--some kind of blade."

Falman frowned. "Prisoner #18406D is known for his use of homemade explosives," he said, tapping his fingers ponderously. "He has in the past used bits of metal as shrapnel in his bombs, but there are no reports of him using a knife or other bladed weapon. While that does not eliminate the possibility of his arming himself with a knife in his escape, it does mean he likely is not particularly skilled at using it."

If it came from Falman's impressive memory banks, it must have been true. Roy exhaled, slowly. It was poor reassurance, but better than nothing.

"He hasn't been injured since," Roy said. "I'd like to assume it's nothing major, but still. I want a report immediately."

"We'll find out what happened to him, sir," Riza said, and coming from her, it was as good as a vow.

* * *

Fuery got an update less than an hour later. "He's been sent to the hospital, sir," he announced. "Minor leg injury requiring stitches, but expected to make a full recovery. He'll be discharged shortly."

Roy took a deep breath. Inhale, exhale.

At last, his clenched fists relaxed.

**苦痛（上）｜agony, part I**

The ringing of the phone. "Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes on the line, sir."

But when he picked up, there was no response.

* * *

The splatters of blood trickling down the hallway, pooling in the telephone box, smeared against the glass door.

The blood soaking through the photo of Gracia and Elicia.

* * *

The casket was ebony and gleamed in the sunlight. It was lowered into the earth at the foot of a tombstone that spoke tragedy.

"You're right," Riza said softly, "it's raining."

* * *

In retrospect, perhaps it was fortunate that only physical pain was shared.

**窮余｜desperation**

Three years. Over three years of keeping himself out of trouble--or at least, avoiding immediate risk to his person--and now it was all falling apart.

She was _growing. _ He held the Philosopher's Stone in his hand, and she was _growing_ from it, around it, surrounding it. Reconstituting herself--her Ouroboros tattoo, her smirking lips, her long arms, her elegant fingers like claws--

_Trouble_, Roy thought, _she really might be trouble_, and then--

Unimaginable, unspeakable pain. A white-hot dagger through his side. Jerkily, Roy looked down at himself, at--

\--at Lust's hand, plunged into his left side, her nails emerging like talons from his back. 

"It really is a shame," Lust said, with her too-white grin, all jagged teeth and sneering victory. "You really would have made an excellent sacrifice."

And then she yanked her hand from his torso, and with it bloody chunks of flesh and dark, slick innards, and he buckled and collapsed to the stone, blind with agony.

His ignition gloves, shredded. His body, unresponsive. "Enjoy watching your subordinates die before you," Lust purred, and then the click of her heels as she retreated, abandoning them to their fate.

Roy inhaled and nearly gagged. Blood. Blood everywhere. He pressed a trembling hand to his side; his hand sank into his own ruined flesh. Somewhere beside him, Havoc gasped and moaned. 

"Havoc," Roy gritted out. "Second Lieutenant Havoc!"

If there was a reply, Roy couldn't hear it; his ears registered nothing but a faint buzz. His mind was fuzzy, his thoughts a vague blur. He could feel the blood pumping out of him, seeping through his fingers, soaking his shirt, pooling beneath him. Too much blood, he was losing too much blood. He pressed down harder on the wound, each second pure agony, and the blood still came. He tried to focus, but he couldn't think. How bad was it? If he stemmed the blood loss, could he survive, or had he damaged something vital beyond saving? He didn't know. He had only a passing familiarity with human biology. Ed would have known. Ed--

_Ed_.

Ed was feeling this. Somewhere, far from Central, Ed was curled up on himself, choking on agony, feeling Roy suffer, feeling Roy bleed, feeling Roy d--

_No_.

Roy lifted his head, squinted through the darkness. His vision swam, shading gray at the edges, but his eyes finally settled on his gloves. Bloodstained, shredded to ribbons. Useless. He gritted his teeth, pulled his shaking hand from his wound, groped for the knife at his hip. Yanked it from its sheath. Rolled onto his stomach and, somehow, did not scream. Pressed one hand flat against the floor, palm against blood and stone. Pressed the tip of the knife against the back of his hand.

Tiny pricks of pain--meaningless. Droplets of blood beading out of his skin--vital. His vision darkened, but he didn't need to see. He knew this array like he knew the back of his--well.

One last stroke of the blade against his flesh, and then the knife slipped from his grasp and clattered on the floor. _Stay awake, Roy_. He pawed blindly until he found Jean's lighter again. He rolled over onto his back; a groan tore free of his throat, his vision blacked out, agony, pure _agony_\--

He yanked at his torn, bloodied shirt, pulling it away from the still-oozing wound, stuffed it into his mouth instead. He clamped down on the cloth between his teeth, tasted iron. Did not look at the raw flesh of his wound, did not look to see if there was blood, intestine, bone--

_Hold on_, he thought dimly, and then, _I'm sorry, Ed, I'm sorry--_

And he clenched his jaw as hard as he could around the makeshift gag, flicked the lighter, and activated the array carved into his skin.

* * *

He'd thought he knew pain.

He'd thought wrong.

**孤立｜isolation**

Getting outmaneuvered by Bradley--Wrath--was infuriating, appalling, humiliating. Roy's group of trusted subordinates had been scattered; Riza was practically a hostage. But he had contingency plans. He had untapped phone lines, code names, ciphers, networks of informants, safehouses in multiple cities. He had people he trusted with his life, with all their lives. Even if they were not under his official, direct command, even if they were scattered throughout the country, they were _his_, and they worked together as one toward a common goal, knowing that they would either emerge victorious together or meet their downfall together.

But what he did not have--what he had not thought to work into his years of plans--was someone he trusted with _Ed_.

His team knew. His team knew what it meant when Roy suddenly flinched or winced, when Roy clenched his teeth and grasped his own shoulder or leg. They did not have to ask, or ask what to do; they knew, and their concern and their silence were equally absolute.

Now, in an office filled by subordinates whom he did not chose and who were loyal to the Führer, there was no one.

* * *

He went on a handful of dates with a few of Madam Christmas's girls. He ostentatiously made flirtatious phone calls from his office, ignoring the way his subordinates scowled or rolled their eyes or muttered to each other behind raised hands. He lived beneath the watchful Ouroboros eye of King Bradley.

He sent the Elrics off to Briggs with a message sent via Alex Armstrong, and did not think of all the ways Ed could hurt himself up there.

At least, he did not think of it until it happened.

* * *

He ran into Riza in the canteen. "Colonel," she said, with just the right amount of warmth, just the right amount of professionalism. "Good to see you again, sir."

"Lieutenant," he said, giving her a nod. "We should catch up. Tell me, how have you been?"

So they sat down, and Roy surreptitiously pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper, and as Riza regaled him with tales of old comrades, most of whom did not exist, he jotted down notes beneath the table. They swapped a few more stories, light, meaningless fluff. Then Roy checked his pocketwatch, 12:46. He rose from the table, sliding watch and paper into his pocket. "I'm afraid I have to be getting back to work," he said, injecting an apologetic tone into his voice.

"Of course. It's been nice to see you again, sir," Riza replied, and they parted ways, as though this brief meeting between former superior and subordinate was already long forgotten.

Roy went to the bathroom, holed himself up in a stall, locked the door, sat on the toilet. Pulled out his notes and began deciphering. The words came apart into letters, reconstituted themselves into words. SELIM BRADLEY IS HOMUNCULUS.

Roy stared at his own jagged handwriting, his breath stolen.

And then it struck him, suddenly, without warning, just like it always did.

* * *

If anything, it was lucky it happened when and where it did. Because if it had happened in public--if someone had seen--if someone had _realized_\--

But it didn't, and no one did, and Roy bore the torture alone.

* * *

It felt like a rod plunging into his side. Hot as a brand, cold as ice. Impaling him straight through, puncturing flesh, muscle, organ. He gasped, choked, bent double over himself. The pen fell from his suddenly powerless grip; the paper crumpled beneath his spasming fingers.

_Ed_, he thought, and the only reason he did not say it aloud was because the all-consuming agony stole away every last shred of bodily control.

Roy had felt this before, or something very similar. The long talons of Lust thrusting into him, piercing him through--it had been almost exactly like this. He'd nearly bled out. He'd nearly died. The only reason he'd survived was because he'd cauterized it, burnt the wound shut, taken his flames to his own body--

And Ed couldn't.

Ed didn't know flame alchemy.

Ed had been impaled by something, lanced straight through, and he was going to bleed his very life out.

Roy's eyes widened. "Ed," he croaked. The pain continued. "Ed," he repeated, and the pain continued. "_Ed_," he begged, _and the pain continued_\--

* * *

It couldn't have been more than minute, perhaps two.

But it seemed like an eternity, because he writhed in agony and knew that Ed was dying.

* * *

When Roy came to, he was slumped against the wall of the bathroom stall, still clutching his own abdomen, arms wrapping around the radiating pain. But it was less. Still sore, too sharp, but less.

Not the sufferings of a dying man, but rather those of one who had survived.

Roy gasped like he'd never before breathed. He leaned over, curling up on himself, rested his pounding forehead against his knees. _Ed_, he thought, dizzy with pain, dizzy with relief. _Ed. You're alive. Somehow, somehow, you're alive._

He allowed himself a moment, just a moment. Squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his hand against his own gruesome, hideous scar, swallowed down acid and bile. Then he forced himself to straighten. Picked the pen up off the floor and pocketed it. Pulled on one glove, snapped trembling fingers, burned the paper reading _SELIM BRADLEY IS HOMUNCULUS_ to ash and flushed it down the toilet. Took off the glove, unlocked the stall door, walked to the sink, washed his hands. Looked at the mirror to see his own haggard face, lined with the echoes and evidence of too much pain.

He wanted to go to his team, tell them what had happened, demand they get an update from Briggs. They would understand. They would do it, would move heaven and earth to get him a report on Ed's condition, no questions asked, no questions necessary. But his team wasn't here. He had to walk out the bathroom door, return to his office, and put on an act for subordinates who reported to someone other than him. They could not see. They could not know. They could not be allowed even a slightest sliver of an excuse to suspect anything.

Roy allowed himself one deep breath, just one. Then he washed his face, ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his jacket. When he looked at his reflection again, he was Colonel Mustang, State Alchemist, inveterate lady-killer, sacrifice candidate--a man deprived of his most trusted associates, surrounded by enemies, no real threat, no real power, nothing.

It was a perfect mask. It was a perfect lie.

Roy pressed a hand to his side, where the echo of Ed's injury still ached. _Stay alive, Ed_, he thought. _I'll suffer any pain with you. Just stay alive._

**苦痛（下）｜agony, part II**

It was blinding, white-hot rage. It was the furious pounding of his blood, the deafening roar in his ears, the heat of hellfire at his fingertips. It was the vengeful satisfaction that swelled inside him with each and every scream, threatening to collapse his lungs and stop his heart, because it wasn't enough, it wasn't _enough_\--

It was the cold barrel of a gun aimed at his head. It was Riza's voice echoing in his ears, its desperate quaver. It was the gritting of his own teeth, the shaking of his own hand.

Envy squeaked at him with watery eyes. _Killer. _The filth that had taken the life of one of the best men Roy had ever known. _Murderer_. It would be so easy. It was all Envy deserved. It was all _Hughes_ deserved.

"Hand him over, Fullmetal," Roy hissed.

"No," Ed replied.

"_Hand him over_!" Roy roared.

"I refuse!" Ed shouted back.

It was a blinding, white-hot rage. It was a burning like fire in his belly. It was overwhelming, all-encompassing, _rage fury hatred bloodlust fire fire **fire**\--_

* * *

Perhaps it was fortunate that only physical pain was shared. Because for a moment--just a moment--a flicker of a fraction of a heartbeat, somewhere in between the uncertainty and comprehension and defiance and outrage--Ed gazed at him as though there was nothing else in the world, and his eyes glinted with something that was very close to fear.

**絶望｜despair**

"You will perform human transmutation," they said, a threat, a demand, a command.

They bolted his hands down, driving stakes through the arrays on the backs of his gloves, through tender muscle and fragile bone. Pain beyond pain beyond pain. It was still an insignificant speck of dust compared to the horror of what he knew was coming.

* * *

He saw... _things_. Horrible things, brilliant things, indescribable things. Things that would drive a man to madness, if he saw too much.

When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing.

At least, he thought in a brief moment of clarity--at least blindness did not hurt.

* * *

"Left!" Riza shouted, her voice recognizable anywhere, _anywhere_, and Roy whirled, slashing his arm through the air, his fingers snapping, the array ablaze in his mind's eye as clearly as though he could actually see it--

He could feel his flames tearing through the air, feel the broiling heat, feel it sear against his skin. Feel the blister burns forming. But still he continued, because fire was his only weapon, and as long as he fought, there was hope, there was hope--

* * *

He felt it, every last moment of it. Of course he did. Scratches and nicks, bumps and bruises. Minuscule. Meaningless.

Then his right shoulder. A strange sort of pain, familiar yet odd. Something had happened to Ed's automail.

And then, like an explosion, like an apocalypse. Not from Ed, but from around him, from the _world_. A concussive blast that sent him flying through the air and left him deaf except for a tinny ringing in his ears. He hit the ground hard, tumbled heels over head. Skidded to a stop atop the rubble. But that was nothing, nothing, because--

A skewer, a spear, a dagger straight through his upper arm, all the way through. Like a butterfly pinned beneath a sheet of glass. His useless eyes prickled with agony; his throat threatened to rend on a cry. But when he clapped a hand to his own arm, there was no gush of blood, no fresh jolt of pain. He was whole. He was whole.

He was whole, but Ed was not, and Roy could do nothing but join the voices shouting for him.

* * *

"This is the last transmutation the Fullmetal Alchemist will ever perform," Ed's voice said, somewhere in the dark emptiness, and Roy's heart leapt into his throat, _no no no_\--

And then a clap, a lightning crackle, and silence.

* * *

Perhaps it was cruel to hope that death was painful.

But Roy prayed that death was painful, agonizing, _excruciating_, because if it was, that would mean Ed was still alive.

**将来｜future**

After the Promised Day, Ed turned in his silver watch and returned to Resembool with Alphonse, and Roy couldn't even blame him.

Ed hadn't joined the military to further Roy's ambitions; he never signed on to be a cog in the machine of Roy's master plan. He had become a State Alchemist for one purpose and one purpose only: Find a way to get his brother's body back. Even his own arm and leg hadn't really been a consideration. And now that Alphonse had been returned to pale, frail mortality, Ed had no reason to stay. He wouldn't have stayed even if he'd kept his alchemy.

So when he slammed his silver pocketwatch onto Roy's desk, Roy gazed at it for a long, long moment before looking up. He didn't even try to argue. "It's been an honor, Fullmetal," he said, a rare compliment, a mask of neutrality. "If you should ever want to return--"

Ed snorted. "Yeah, right," he sneered. "I'm done with the military. You have fun. Al and I are going home."

And Roy let him go. He let go.

* * *

Things were much quieter, after the Promised Day. Political machinations were much less dramatic when they didn't involve preventing the slaughter of literally the nation's entire citizenry.

Ed left, and the pain left with him.

* * *

Roy kept Ed's silver pocketwatch. He did not carry it on his person, or use it, or even open it. He instead placed it in the drawer of his nightstand. Every once in a while he opened the drawer to look at it. It was little different in appearance than his own State Alchemist pocketwatch, perhaps a bit more dinged-up. But he gazed upon it, sometimes, just to remember.

* * *

After the Promised Day, Roy's team remained separated. Falman was once again assigned to Briggs; Havoc continued struggling through physical therapy. With a bit of wrangling, Roy managed to keep Riza, Breda and Fuery under his command in Central, but there were new additions to his office as well, men and women who had not gone through hell and back again with him, _for_ him. Men and women who did not understand and never could.

Perhaps it was heartless to say that he did not trust the newcomers, that none of them did. But it was only the truth. They could not replace the members of his team who were no longer there. He missed Falman's encyclopedic brain and photographic memory, his serious and hardworking nature. He missed Havoc's street smarts and cleverness, his sarcasm and honesty. He missed Ed's....

He missed Ed.

But Ed was back home where he belonged, back in Resembool--a place of quiet affection and belonging, a place that did not demand that he carve slivers off his soul. And every day that Roy crawled into bed without having felt another horrific agony was yet another day that it was worth having Ed far from the still-dangerous streets of Central, far from the cruel, vicious halls of Central Command.

It was worth it, he told himself, and almost believed it.

* * *

The letter arrived at Roy's office some three months later, addressed properly to Brigadier General Roy Mustang. The envelope had been slit open by military censors, but the contents of the letter were unaltered. It was a single sheet of paper, the ink a messy scrawl. There was no salutation.

> _Al said I should write. Resembool's great. I never thought I was the type of person who could sit and do nothing but I'm enjoying it now. Al's slowly getting better. Got some of his weight back. Still can't spar though. Or even walk much really. But it's okay he's got time.  
_
> 
> _Winry's updating my automail, I've grown a bit since last time so I need a longer leg, YES I'M STILL GROWING. Leg to be replaced Oct. 3. Still need to get my arm into shape. Will probably travel after. Might be a while though.  
_
> 
> _Best to Lt. Hawkeye et al. Remember I owe you 520 cenz._

The letter was unsigned. It was still better than most of Ed's mission reports had been.

Roy read the letter once, twice. He lowered it to his desk. "Fullmetal sends his regards," he announced.

Breda and Fuery immediately began chattering; the rest of the office glanced at each other with some amount of confusion. They knew who the Fullmetal Alchemist was, of course, but they didn't _know_.

"And how is Edward?" Riza asked politely.

"Well enough, from the sounds of it," Roy replied crisply. "Not that he had much to say. You've seen his mission reports."

"That I have," Riza said, in a tone suggesting that she would be happy to never see an Edward Elric mission report again.

"He also seems to be unaware that you've been promoted," he added.

Riza shot him a particularly frosty look.

Roy did not smile. Instead, he fingered the edge of the letter, his eyes skimming over the words. _I'm enjoying it now._ He wondered how Ed filled his suddenly-empty days. _I've grown a bit._ He wondered how much taller Ed was now. _Will probably travel after_. He wondered if Ed's travels would bring him back to Central.

He read the letter again and again, but he didn't even realize that he'd missed the most important piece.

* * *

October 3rd dawned crisp and clear. When Roy walked into the office, his schedule was read to him by Sergeant Barlow, one of the newer assignments to his office. She was quite the stickler for sticking to schedule, which aggravated both Riza (who did not appreciate someone else having more control over Roy's schedule than she did) and Roy (who did not appreciate schedules in general). "Ten o'clock, meeting with Führer Grumman," Sergeant Barlow read aloud. "Eleven o'clock, phone call with General Armstrong." Roy shuddered. "One o'clock, meeting with the Ishval group. Five o'clock--"

"_Paperwork_," Riza said fiercely, and with a look of resignation, Barlow took a pen to the schedule.

The point was that Roy's schedule was strictly constructed and strictly enforced, and so it was only a matter of pure chance that it didn't happen in front of his entire office, including a half-dozen subordinates whom he did not trust and who did not understand.

Ten o'clock, meeting with Führer Grumman. Eleven o'clock, phone call with General Armstrong, which Roy dreaded and which was exactly as miserable as he'd expected. Once that was done, he put in a phone call to "Vanessa," whom the majority of the men and women in his office did not realize was only a code name. Between Olivier Armstrong and Falman, Roy felt like he had a decent grasp of the situation up north. Once that was done, he had enough time to step out for lunch, rather than going to the canteen or sending someone out to bring food in. "I'm going out for lunch," Roy said, shoving himself back from his desk. Riza was already giving him the stink-eye, so he said, "Captain, would you care to join me?"

She still eyed him suspiciously, but acquiesced. "Of course, sir." As though reading a silent cue, Breda and Fuery rose as well, and they left the office in mass.

"Does this mean you're treating us, sir?" Breda asked as they walked down the hall.

"Not on your life, Lieutenant," Roy replied, and then it happened.

A jolt of pain, shooting up the nerves of his left leg. A blaze of agony halfway up his thigh, with the intensity of lightning, the ferocity of a wildfire. He snapped his teeth shut on a shout of pain, so hard his jaw ached. His knee buckled beneath him, and he barely caught himself, toppling straight into the wall. He clutched at his leg, fingers digging into flesh, and it was a hideous pain but one Roy knew, he _knew_ it--

"General?!" Fuery yelped.

"Edward," Riza whispered.

Roy forced himself to breathe, although every single movement hurt. "He's fine," he gritted out through clenched teeth. He inhaled, too shakily. He pressed a hand to the wall, gathering his bearings, and then he hauled himself back to his feet.

"Sir?" Breda this time, his voice tinged with concern.

"It's fine," Roy said shortly, "I'm fine." He took another deep breath, swept his hair back, straightened. The pain was receding now. He stretched his leg out tentatively, took a step. He was fine.

Edward was fine.

"Sir?" Riza pressed. "Are you all right? Is he--"

"Automail," Roy said. His voice was brusque but mostly steady. "He got his automail reattached. He's fine."

"Are you sure, sir?" Riza asked.

He couldn't quite dredge up any expression that was appropriately blasé, but he tried. "I've had to experience this more than enough times, Captain," he said dryly. "I think I know what it feels like by now."

It was pain--gruesome, horrific pain. But if this was the only pain Ed experienced now, Roy would embrace it gratefully.

* * *

But even then, he didn't realize what he'd missed.

* * *

That evening, after he got home, showered, ate dinner, and helped himself to a finger of whiskey, he pulled open his nightstand drawer. Sitting there was Ed's silver pocketwatch, and beside it Ed's letter. Roy brushed his fingertips against the pocketwatch, tracing the Dragon of Amestris carved upon it. Then he picked up the letter, gingerly pulled it out of the envelope, unfolded it. Let his eyes trace over Ed's careless scrawl.

_Remember I owe you 520 cenz._ Roy had read this one line more than any other, because he knew what it meant, and he knew there would be days that he would need those words to keep going.

_Will probably travel after._ This gnawed at Roy, taunted him, haunted him. Where would Ed go? Would he travel abroad? Would he return to Central, even just for a day?

_Leg to be replaced._ Which made sense, Roy supposed; all teasing aside, it was only to be expected that now, freed from the physical burden of his automail arm and the paraphysical burden of supporting Al's body inside the Gate, Ed would grow a bit more. Of course he'd need new automail. If anything, it was a bit of a relief to know that this time, the new automail was necessary only because he'd outgrown the old, not because he'd managed to destroy it--

And then Roy stopped, mentally backtracking.

_Leg to be replaced Oct. 3._

Roy stared at that one sentence with wide eyes.

_Oct. 3._

Today. That was _today_.

It was odd enough that Ed would write him a letter. Why would Ed give him an automail update?

...Why did Ed think Roy should know the exact date of his automail replacement ahead of time?

Roy stared at the letter, and stared, and stared.

* * *

The letters came irregularly. Sometimes they were scribbled on random pieces of paper, ragged edges torn by hand. Sometimes they had transmutation circles sketched in the margins, beautiful arrays that Roy could not have even begun to dream up, some of which he couldn't even understand. They all came in properly addressed envelopes that bore no hint of the author.

When each new letter arrived, Roy read, carefully, with a delicacy its writer would have found offensive, and then he stored it in his nightstand with the others.

* * *

> _New leg is great. Winry's learned a lot out in Rush Valley. I mean she's always been good but this new leg is awesome._
> 
> _Al's still improving. Now that we're sure his digestive system can take it we're feeding him all sorts of stuff. Hard to get good Cretan food here in Resembool though._
> 
> _An Ishvalan family moved into town lately. Parents were pretty scared of me at first but they've come around. Cute little kid, I gave her my old alchemy books. Parents were pretty scared of that too at first. Granny had them over for dinner the other night. This is where it begins, the future you're working for._

* * *

> _Al's almost back to his old self. Or, well, you know. He's gotten even better at alchemy, the jerk. And here I am stuck fixing fences by hand._
> 
> _He's been making noises about traveling. We've been around the east a bit, went to visit Teacher once, but he's not ready for anything major. He can't beat me in a spar without relying on alchemy. He always was the better fighter but I only had to work my arm back up. He has to work his entire body._
> 
> _Paper said Hakuro's been giving you shit. What gives?_

* * *

> _Crazy to think it's been almost two years. Doesn't seem like it. Or maybe time just works differently in Resembool, who knows._
> 
> _Al's thinking of traveling to Xing. Says it's for alkehestry but I think he just wants to see some old friends. Still would be nice if he learns alkehestry while he's at it. Not that I don't miss alchemy every single day, but you've got to admit it is kind of fucked up. Hopefully alkehestry is a bit cleaner._
> 
> _I think he's ready to travel. He'll never be as strong as he was in the armor but he's strong enough to protect himself. I offered to go to Xing with him but he says I should do something else. Still, I think I'll go somewhere. Resembool is nice, but I haven't been a country boy for a long time._
> 
> _I have 520 cenz with your name on it, what's taking so long?_

* * *

> _Al's set off for Xing. It was hard, watching him go--letting him go and staying behind. But this is what we fought so long and so hard for--the very possibility of him leading his own life._
> 
> _Getting another new leg--outgrew this one, too. Leg to be replaced May 1._
> 
> _I think I'll do some traveling, too._

* * *

If anyone were to ask him, Roy would shrug and say he had no idea.

In reality, he knew that it was exactly two years, one month, and seven days since the last time he saw Ed.

* * *

The only announcement of his arrival was a sudden, stunned silence.

It was the kind of silence usually reserved for someone like that jackass Hakuro. There had also been one singularly memorable occasion when the Ice Queen had visited Central and received a similar reception. But this time, there was no brittle edge, no wariness, and that was enough to send the hairs on the back of Roy's neck rising.

And then a chair screeched across the floor, and Riza exclaimed, "_Edward_!"

Roy's head jerked up, his eyes wide. There, standing in the doorway, was Ed. _Ed._

He was still short, but taller now, noticeably so. A bit more slender, his shoulders not quite as broad. There was a new sharpness to his jaw, a new cant to his posture. He wore a brown coat, common, inconspicuous. His left hand was shoved into his pocket; his right arm was braced against the doorjamb. His right hand, his _hand_, flesh and blood and bone. His hair was longer, now, tied back in a tail. But his eyes were still the same, golden and glorious.

"Hey," Ed said, like he hadn't been gone for two years.

(Two years, one month, and seven days.)

Roy stared at him. Ed met his gaze evenly, and too late, Roy got a hold of himself. "Fullmetal," he said, and calmly stood from his desk chair. He very obviously looked Ed up and down, a blatant assessment, and then he said, "You said in your letters that you'd grown. I never took you for a liar."

Ed didn't explode into his usual diatribe, just bared his teeth in what could almost be called a grin. "You're such an asshole sometimes, General," he said.

Poor Barlow looked like she was about to keel over and have an aneurysm.

"How've you been, Boss?" Havoc asked.

"How is Alphonse?" Riza asked.

"How long are you in town?" Fuery asked.

"How long are we going to make him stand in the doorway?" Breda wondered aloud.

"How about we save the catching up for another time and place," Roy interjected. It was not a question. "Maybe you've forgotten, Fullmetal, but this is an office you've barged into, and the rest of us are actually still working our jobs here."

Riza shot him a look. So did Havoc and Breda. Even Fuery was looking at him with something very close to disapproval. It was a good thing Falman wasn't there, because his judgmental squint was all that was needed to round out the set.

But Ed just shrugged. "Maybe tell that to the people who let me in," he said with aggressive cheer. He pushed himself off the doorjamb and walked over to Barlow's desk. "Just give me the General's address and I'll be out of your hair," he said. Maybe he was trying for friendly, or perhaps slightly flirty, but it only sounded like a threat.

Barlow shot Roy a perplexed, slightly terrified look. Roy sighed and took pity on her. "Just give him my address, Sergeant," he said. Then he fixed his eyes on Ed once more. "But why do you need _my_ address, exactly?"

"Well, I can't stay in the military dorms anymore, and I'm not about to barge in on Gracia without warning her in advance," Ed replied. "And you aren't about to make the People's Alchemist stay in a hotel, are you?"

Roy buried his face in one hand with a sigh. But when he glanced up again, he froze.

Ed wore a cocky grin, but it didn't reach his eyes. Instead, he gazed at Roy with something that could not be identified, and Roy--

Roy had never been able to resist the fire in those eyes.

* * *

When Roy got home, Ed was sitting on his doorstep, waiting. His golden hair was a beacon in the dimness of dusk.

"Fullmetal," Roy said by way of greeting.

Ed looked up. His face was, strangely, inscrutable. "You probably shouldn't call me that," he said. "I'm not an alchemist anymore."

Roy walked up, pulling his keyes out of his pocket. "Edward," he said, an olive branch. "You didn't have to wait outside."

Ed snorted. "I'm not an alchemist anymore," he repeated. "I can't unlock a door just by clapping my hands together anymore."

Roy unlocked his door the old-fashioned way. "I don't think you _unlocked_ doors so much as you broke them down. Or created them out of thin air."

He expected some kind of snide comment--_I didn't create them out of thin air, I created them out of **walls**, haven't you ever heard of conservation of mass?_\--but Ed was silent. Roy sighed, quietly, to himself, and swung the door open. "Come in," he said.

Ed stalked into the house, glancing around. Roy closed the door and locked it for good measure. "Make yourself at home," he suggested to Ed as he hung up his coat. "Anything to drink? I think I'm going to have a nightcap." He turned and walked into the kitchen.

After a moment's pause, Ed followed him. "Isn't it a bit early for a nightcap?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Some of us go to bed early," Roy said, far more blithely than he felt. He pulled a bottle off the shelf. "Brandy?" he offered.

Ed didn't reply. Instead he looked around the kitchen and the attached dining room, as though surveying his surroundings. "Nice place," he said, almost grudgingly.

It wasn't that nice of a place; Roy could do significantly better on his salary. But not everyone in his unit could do better on _their_ salaries, and Roy preferred to keep them close. "Thank you," he said anyway. "There are some advantages to getting promoted." He retrieved a snifter from the cabinet and poured himself a generous helping of brandy; he had the feeling he'd need it. "Sure you don't want a drink?"

Ed shot him a glare, which he took as a polite refusal. He put the bottle away, picked up his brandy, swirled it, took a sip. It did nothing to settle his nerves. "So, Fullmetal," he said, "if you're going to be staying here--"

"That's not why I'm here," Ed interrupted.

Roy paused. He lowered his brandy, set it on the countertop. Turned, slowly, to Ed.

Ed stared back at him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, jaw set. "You know why I'm here, General," he said.

Roy gazed at him, light-headed, his heart beating strangely. It seemed impossible that this could be the kitchen of his own house, that Ed could be standing here saying what he was saying. It didn't seem like reality.

"If you're here for the reason I think you're here," Roy said quietly, "you probably should be calling me something other than 'General.'"

Ed's face did something strange--twisted, then settled. 

It was all the proof Roy needed.

But then again, he had long since realized, and getting proof now changed nothing. He knew, and it was already too late.

"You knew," Roy said. It emerged a whisper. He leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, staring at the smooth stone. "How did you know?"

"I'm not an idiot," Ed snapped. "I felt it, okay? When you fought Lust. Al told me you got skewered through the side and then you cauterized it yourself. I _felt_ that, you bastard. You think I couldn't tell what was happening? Al didn't even need to tell me--there aren't a lot of people who can get a wound like that and then cauterize it, all in three minutes flat." Ed paused, and then his eyes finally fell away, fixing on the ground. "And only one person who would get an array cut into the back of his hand right before cauterizing the wound."

Roy closed his eyes, the realization a yawning gulf inside him. It was dizzying in its depth, and suddenly, he felt weary with the weight of worlds. Ed had known. All this time, Ed had _known_.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Roy asked.

"Because I busy fighting Homunculi and trying to get my brother's body back," Ed said bluntly. "Why didn't _you_ say anything?"

"Because you were twelve years old," Roy replied. "And I was busy trying to become Führer. And then busy also fighting Homunculi."

Some of the fire faded. Ed sighed. "Okay, fair," he allowed. "But still--" and then he broke off, as though uncertain.

Roy turned away, just for a moment. He picked up his snifter with a hand that did not tremble, took a sip to fortify himself, stared at it so that he didn't have to look at Ed. "It wasn't the time or place for it," he said at last, his voice soft. "Not then, and not after. You were just a child, desperately trying to fight the universe. And then, after--you had to be with him. Alphonse needed you, and you needed to be with him. And both of you needed to be in charge of your own lives for a while." He exhaled, slowly. Set his brandy down, gripped the edge of the counter instead. "I know better than to try to control you," he admitted. "Even when you were under my command, I knew better. I used you to further my own ambitions, I'll admit that. But I gave you all the free rein I could. And I'd decided that once you were done--once you'd accomplished your goals and got Alphonse's body back--I decided that when that day came, I'd let you go."

Ed's eyes went wide. "Let me go?"

"Let you go live your life," Roy said. With a supreme effort of will, he made himself look Ed in the eye. "I told you--you needed to be in charge of your own life." He took a deep breath. He realized, belatedly, that his hands had clenched into fists. "I'm a military man, Fullmetal. My duty has always been to protect those beneath me. I took you under my command because that was the best way I knew to protect you." He closed his eyes. "I promised to do what I could to protect you. But you were never supposed to know."

"Too late for that," Ed mumbled.

"I know," Roy replied, too honestly.

Silence descended, heavy and muffling. Ed swallowed and rubbed his hands against his thighs, a gesture that was almost nervous. How often was Edward Elric nervous? The very idea was ludicrous. But there Ed stood before him, anxiously fidgeting, his eyes cutting to the side.

"Mustang," Ed said at last, "are you in love with me?"

The question might as well have been an automail punch to the jaw. Roy stared at him, ears ringing, mind a blank haze. "Fullmetal," he said numbly, but no, that was wrong. "Edward," he said. "Ed." And then he paused. "I," he said. Hesitated. What was he supposed to say? He was supposed to be glib, silver-tongued, eloquent, but he had no answer, nothing he could say.

"Answer the question, Mustang," Ed snapped. A stranger might not have noticed the quaver in his voice, but Roy was no stranger. "I get all the stuff about trying to protect me. I'm one of your people, and you protect your people, I get that. But this," and he gestured to the empty space between them, to the years of hellish suffering between them, "this is something else. Right?" He took a deep breath. "So tell me the truth. Are you in love with me?"

And Roy was helpless, so helpless. "I," he said, powerless, unable to resist, and he surrendered. "I have spent so long trying _not_ to be in love with you," he confessed.

There was a strange light in Ed's eyes, like fire, like life. He lifted his chin, a declaration, a challenge. "Good," he said. "Me, too. Maybe we can both quit trying."

**Author's Note:**

> To minium: I hope you have a wonderful AU Exchange!


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